North of Boston,
           the sun spills
                     a crow light

on the hill
           and the woods
                      by the classroom

feel like a place
           where you can say

where you can wend
            instead of go:
                       the interplay

of leaves and shadows
            helps refine

Take a breath.
            Go back in.
                        Or, better yet,

go and sit
             by the stream,
                         a friend

who also must
             always say
                         goodbye to

these maples
             and pines for so
                         many miles



  The cemetery sky
          lies ivory-gray
  as sparrows and dark-eyed
          juncos sway
me to cross the iron-finialed gates,
run my fingers over engraved
lunettes, and peel some meaning from
the ragtime melodies of diverse
          singing birds.

   Among the slate they dart
          landing briefly
   on a name, and then they start
          off to the leafless
trees painted in the background:
silver notes smudged into brown.
Those settled by scant flags and flowers,
flee the corpses in their fear,
          as I come near.

   Yet remaining still amid
          my awful entrance,
    on tall-stacked rocks, a red
          one hardly glances
my way: perched on David’s star,
he watches, bravest bird by far.
His charcoal eyes catch something
out beyond me in the distant gleam,
           and he dives down.

ANDREW SZILVASY teaches British Literature outside of Boston, and has poems appearing or forthcoming in After the Pause, THINK Journal, Dunes Review, and in L'Éphémère VII, among others. He lives in Boston with his wife and cat. Aside from writing, reading and teaching, Andrew spends his time hiking, running, and brewing beer.